The Complete Casebook of Cardigan, Volume 2: 1933 Page 32

  “Seen me before, haven’t you?” he said.

  “Please—what do you want?”

  He spotted a decanter half full of some amber liquid; uncorked it, smelled it and poured out a generous portion. Raising the glass, he said: “Doctor’s orders.” It burned on the way down and he sighed and exclaimed quietly: “Good old Bacardi.”

  “Please!”

  He looked up. “As if you didn’t know.”

  She crossed swiftly to the telephone. He did not move, did not start; lighting a cigarette, he said through the smoke: “Don’t kid me. Use it and weep.”

  She did not use the telephone but turned around and leaned with her hands on the table, her dark eyes round and bright with suspense, her full red lips pursed.

  “That’s always the way,” Cardigan said in a regretful voice. “I run up against a girl I’d need no urging to go nuts about, but business always gets in the way. Tough. Honest, beautiful. Tough. You know?”

  “You’re drunk!”

  “I wish I was.” He was regarding her with lazy, speculative eyes. “How’d a nice girl like you ever get tangled up with a heel like Niles Kemmerer. What did he do—sing Chloe to you?”

  “You are drunk!”

  “Nope. It’s only the poet in me coming out. We Irish are a sentimental race. Take for instance if some heel ups and knocks off a pal, well”—he shrugged, lifted his palms—“we take it to heart. And if some swell-looking girl gets in the way, well, it always hurts us more than it hurts her if we have to hurt her. I’d hate like hell to have to hurt you, beautiful.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You went to school, didn’t you?”

  SHE let out a startled little “Oh!” and cut across to the other side of the room. Next door, the piano player was banging through Limehouse Blues. The notes came sharp and clean through the whistle and beat of the wind. The door banged open and two drunken youths staggered in, one holding the other by the arm and saying: “Rita, tuh-tell him about Foujita. He don’t b’lieve me when I s-say Foujita’s swellest cat man whole field art—” He broke off, bowed drunkenly. “S-sorry. Didn’t know y’ had a friend. Humble pardon. Excuse.”

  They fell out and the wind banged the door shut.

  The girl was shaking. She dropped to the studio couch.

  “So it’s Rita, eh?” Cardigan said.

  She beat small fists on her knees. “Please!”

  His face fell, looked very sad, but his voice carried a mournful threat. “I’m looking for Niles Kemmerer, Rita.”

  “I don’t know him!”

  “Maybe you just went down to the pier to see the royal barge come in…. Listen, you. A pal of mine was bringing that baboon from Macao and this pal got a knife where it hurt and Niles Kemmerer disappeared from the boat. Inside the harbor. You were down on the pier waiting for him. You saw me and you saw a couple of city dicks—and you must have heard the purser talking to these dicks. Because you took it on the lam. When I went on board the ship, they’d learned that some guy on the bridge had noticed a small motorboat plugging along just as the ship got inside the Golden Gate. They didn’t know my pal had been killed until they were damn near at the dock. Now that motorboat may be a connection, and it may not. It may just have been knocking along and Kemmerer, after he’d killed my pal, may have jumped and taken his chances on being picked up. But you were down at the dock to meet Kemmerer. You lammed when you heard what had happened. Has Kemmerer called you up on the phone yet?”

  She stared fiercely at the floor. “I don’t believe a word you say!”

  “You don’t have to,” he tossed back at her. “But I’ll bet I get some answers or I park right here till Kemmerer shows up. I didn’t climb up here for the exercise.”

  She jumped up. “I don’t care what you climbed up here for. Whatever it is, you’ll not get it. Do you think I’m fool enough to let you clown around my house this way? I know Niles Kemmerer. Very well; I know him. I saw in the newspapers that a man named Niles Kemmerer was being brought into port and I went down to watch and see if it was the same Niles Kemmerer I knew; the same Niles Kemmerer who robbed me of five thousand dollars three years ago.”

  “When I came in here, you looked scared, little one. You look scared now.”

  “Do you blame me?” she whipped back at him; and added: “When the kind of person they use to scare children with walks in on me! Is there any chance that you have illusions of grandeur concerning an innocuous appearance? I’ll bet you’d frighten yourself if you ever took a look in a mirror.”

  He stood back on his heels, grinning broadly, disarmingly. “How the young lady does carry on!”

  “I’ve had enough of you! Get out!”

  “Get hot, Rita. Old man Cardigan can take it; he can dish it out and he can take it, too—”

  THERE were voices on the porch again, the door opened and the two drunks reappeared accompanied by three other husky lads in blazers and turtleneck sweaters. The spokesman raised a hand Fascist-fashion and declared: “Rita, we are drunk! But we inshist you bring over the boy friend ’n’ join us in a hi-de-hic—diddle and a hot-cha-cha.”

  Still angry, dark-eyed and tempestuous, the girl said: “I’m sorry, Larry, but he’s no boy friend of mine. I don’t know who he is. Please ask him to leave.”

  The spokesman exclaimed: “Think of that!”

  And one of the husky lads barked: “Remember dear old alma mater, gang! O.K.! Six-four-three-eight—”

  The gang charged and Cardigan went down under five who were youths in everything but heft and punch. Drawing his gun was out of the question; so was trying to reason with five drunks. By sheer numbers—and two of the lads were as big and husky as he was—Cardigan was carried to the door amid a downpour of blows.

  “O.K., Charlie! Remember how we used to put the shot, old kid, old pal, old sock. Ready! Eins, zwei, drei!…”

  Cardigan felt himself sailing through free air. He cleared the porch railing, twisting; caromed off the staircase balustrade below, slammed into the steps. He tried to stop himself, but went head over heels down the steps, shot into space again and landed on a balustrade below, cracking, breaking it; fell plummetlike again and crashed into hard earth and loose stones, rolled and slid downward and came to an abrupt stop against a supporting pillar of a lower switchback in the staircase. Bruised, dazed, half senseless, he lay there panting hoarsely, long tears in his overcoat, his hat gone.

  “Boy-oh-boy!” he muttered, and again, “Boy-oh-boy!”

  Stones were suddenly stirred beside him. “Chief! Chief!”

  “Hanh?”

  “This is Pat, chief! Oh, chief, are you hurt?”

  “I thought I told you—”

  “Tell me, are you hurt? Tell me!”

  He chuckled. “Huh… old girl Friday!”

  “Chief, are you?”

  “Nah. Look out’ll I get up.”

  She tried to help him, straining her small body. He finally stood up, a sorry and ragged figure, with his hair down over his eyes, one shirt cuff hanging by a thread, one trouser leg slit from cuff to knee.

  “Lemme get my breath,” he muttered.

  “But what—what happened?”

  “Oh, I got wise. I got wise.”

  “Oh, chief, you fool, you!”

  “Listen. Shut up and listen. Watch that house. If she comes out, tail her. I’m going back to the hotel and get some new rags on. Call me there. If I’m gone, tell the desk where you are and if you’re not here when I get back, I’ll call the desk. You got that straight?”

  “B-but—”

  “Never mind now. Do as I tell you.”

  “Here’s your hat.”

  “Thanks. I’m glad I didn’t lose that…. Wise, I got. Well, maybe I’ll get wiser.”

  Chapter Three

  To Rob a Cop—

  THE cab stopped in front of the Hotel Polk and Cardigan climbed out, paid his bill and headed for the hotel entrance. His bare leg was visible through the slit in his tr
ousers. A foot of his coat sleeve dangled. There were cuts on his face. As he went through the door in a very ill humor, he ran into Brokhard and Doughty.

  Doughty’s mouth dropped open.

  “Gosh!”

  Brokhard’s eyes narrowed. “Did you fall or were you pushed?”

  “Get out of my way.”

  “Wait a minute,” Brokhard clipped. “What happened?”

  “I was beaten and robbed in Pacific, near Battery. A swell police force! Here you and pieface there spend your time in hotel lobbies while an honest man is beaten and robbed. Not a cop in sight—or if he was, he looked the other way and counted to a hundred.”

  “Nuts! You weren’t robbed!”

  “You’re telling me? Now tell me I wasn’t beaten up! Or maybe I fell asleep, had a dream and beat myself up!… That’s a police department for you! Always shrewd and clinical!”

  “Tsk, tsk! Don’t yell like that,” Doughty said, making gentle gestures with his fat hands and an indicative nod toward the sanctimonious desk clerk.

  Narrow-eyed, Brokhard said: “Cardigan, now listen to reason and—”

  “Listen to hooey, you mean! Out of my way, crackpot!”

  He strode across the lobby, entered the elevator, was lifted to the fifth floor. Entering his room, he tore off his clothes, got beneath a cold needle shower and worked fast. Then he got a bottle of iodine out of his gladstone, touched up the cuts and bruises on his legs and arms and body, meanwhile grunting, groaning and sucking in his breath. An extra suit hung in the closet; it had not been pressed since its emergence from his bag, but he put it on. He had no second overcoat. He brushed his hat, but the result was hardly noticeable. Then he went to the door, opened it, and was starting away when he heard the phone ring. Diving back to the door, he opened it and rushed into the bedroom.

  “Yeah?… Yes, Pat. Shoot…. Wait’ll I get a pencil…. O.K., let’s have it…. Yup. Got it. Watch for me.”

  He took the elevator to the second floor, got off, found a service stairway and followed it to the basement. He took a side exit out, walked fast and hailed the first cab that came along. Wearing no overcoat, he felt the sharp bite of the night cold. At the fag-end of Kearny Street he told the driver to slow down, then had him stop and climbed out. It was windy here, with old scraps of newspapers flying.

  Cardigan crossed the street, entered a drugstore and bought a package of cigarettes. Then he crossed to the large magazine rack, where Pat was thumbing magazines. He picked up one himself and said, in a low voice: “Well?”

  “Across the street, up a bit. A two-story brick house, with a one-arm lunchroom on the ground floor. At the right of the window is a hall doorway. She went in there.”

  “Alone?”

  “All alone.”

  He put the magazine back. “O.K. Hang around till I come out and don’t make up with strange men.”

  “Chief,” she said in an anxious voice, “you’re just going hog-wild tonight! Why don’t you wait?”

  “For what—Christmas?”

  “Oh, you—” But he was on his way out, rapping his heels purposefully. Crossing the windy street, he reached the opposite sidewalk, went along close to the buildings. The one-arm lunchroom was empty but for the counter man. Cardigan crowded the hall door, found it unlocked and ducked into a dim hallway, noticing a sign on the door, Furnished Rooms. The single electric bulb that hung from the ceiling had no shade and was of low power. He was careful about closing the door noiselessly.

  “Lookin’ for somebody?”

  CARDIGAN spun. The voice was a woman’s, lazy, and droning. He saw her leaning in a doorway halfway down the hall. She had a young baby face that was too fat and she was tall and heavy with tiny feet, tiny hands, and trick bangs down her forehead. She chewed gum and wore a sleepy, come-hither smile.

  “Maybe,” he said, going toward her, and put his hand in his coat pocket. His eyes were narrowed, bright, sharp—as though they reflected wits suddenly honed and stropped. “Haven’t I seen you in pictures?”

  “Funnies?”

  “O.K., girlie—pick up the marbles.” He chuckled roughly, good naturedly, though back of the dance in his eyes was a wily look. “After you.”

  She rolled loose hips into a sitting room full of cretonne and overstuffed mohair, and Cardigan, closing the door, took a quick survey of the room, placed his exits. She slapped high heels across the floor toward a sideboard, scooped up a bottle and a couple of glasses and came back to plank them on the table. Deftly she snapped gum with teeth and tongue.

  “’S nice night out, big boy, ain’t it?… Seltzer for a chaser?”

  “Sure.”

  She returned to the sideboard, fizzed seltzer into two glasses and brought them to the table, flopped heavily into a chair and gave the impression of bouncing once.

  “Be in town long, cowboy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Swell.” She raised her tot of whiskey. “Well, bottoms up, handsome.”

  “Skoal, cowgirl.”

  He took the drink, stood up to reach for a match as the girl reached for her chaser. She said: “Always like seltzer for a chaser.”

  “I suppose you like it because a guy can’t tell what’s in it, huh?”

  She started.

  His big foot landed on her foot, his big hand slapped her mouth and stayed there tightly and with his other hand he heaved her out of the chair, saying: “You asked for it, sister—and you’ll get it.”

  She struggled, used her knees while Cardigan twisted sidewise and shunted the blows against his left thigh. He slammed her down on a divan and said: “Didn’t even get to first base, huh? Your own fault. Never drop goofy powder in a guy’s drink in front of a mirror, dumbbell…. You wouldn’t like to see the green pastures, would you?” he asked, drawing his gun, leveling it down at her breast. “Called for an ace and got a joker, didn’t you?”

  Her lips blubbered.

  “Cut it out!” he snapped in a low, threatening voice. “You make me sick.” He dropped his voice. “And talk in a whisper. Where’s the jane came in here a little while ago?”

  “Honest— I thought—”

  “I was a sucker. I know what you thought. A pushover. Now spring it, girlie. Where’s the jane? This is a thirty-eight you’re looking at, and it works. I’d hate to do it, but if it’s you or me in this thing—then it’s got to be you!”

  “Oh, d-don’t!”

  “Then get it out, and snap into it. Where is she?”

  “Upstairs.”

  “Where upstairs?”

  “Last d-door on the right, the back.”

  “You wouldn’t lie, would you?”

  She panted: “It’s God’s truth!”

  He took a tin box from his pocket, stepped back, and laid his gun on the table. From the box he removed a roll of adhesive plaster, cut off several strips. The girl was shaking, wide-eyed. He bent over her.

  She whispered: “D-don’t—”

  “For trying that knock-out-drop gag, any other guy would smash you. Shut up!” He placed the three strips across her mouth. From a pair of portieres he took two ropes, bound her hands, then her ankles. “To keep you honest,” he said.

  HE took another drink, smacked his lips, then picked up his gun and crossed to the door. There was a switch alongside it, and he turned out the room lights. In the darkness, he could hear the girl’s breath wheezing through her nostrils.

  He removed the key from the inside of the door, stepped into the hallway, locked the door from the outside. He ached quite a bit from that pitch down Telegraph Hill. There was no sound in the house now, and he climbed the stairway cautiously, placing his feet on the outside of each step, to avoid making the old wood creak. He reached the upper hallway, cat-footed down it and came to the last door on the right, bent his head and put his ear to the panel.

  Trying the knob, he found the door unlocked and opened it, with his gun leveled. This room was cozy, intimate, warm. Against the opposite wall stood a divan, and on
the divan lay a man, sleeping. Cardigan felt a prickling sensation electrify his spine. The sleeping man on the divan was Niles Kemmerer. He stepped forward eagerly.

  Then he felt a jab in the back, a steady hard pressure there. A familiar voice said: “Up high.”

  He raised his hands, felt his gun removed. Turning about, he looked down at Rita. She looked very businesslike in a dark tweed suit and a brown beret, brown oxfords and an Eton collar with a black string tie.

  “You never learn a lesson, do you?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Uh-uh. Better put that cap pistol down before I take it away from you.”

  “Try bluffing someone else, Cardigan. Your pitches are wild on this ball ground. Sit down. There.”

  “With a little training,” he said, seating himself, “we could use you in the agency.”

  “The agency would need the training, Cardigan.”

  He saw that she was firm, negligently sure of herself and not to be trifled with. She did not hold the gun like a hot potato, but as a gun should be held. Leaning back against the edge of the table, her dark eyes steady on Cardigan, she said: “I was afraid back there for a few moments that those rah-rah boys had broken your neck. Maybe it’s unfortunate they didn’t. You’ve got something in common with all harps: you don’t know when to quit and call it a day—”

  Niles Kemmerer stirred, opened his eyes, sat up abruptly. He was a pale young-old man, with classic features, a silky mane of yellow hair, long graceful fingers.

  “Take it easy, Niles,” the girl said.

  “Who’s this?” Kemmerer asked, breathless.

  She said: “Never mind. Keep your mouth shut and stay where you are. Understand that, Niles—keep your mouth shut.” She had not taken her eyes off Cardigan, and now she addressed him. “You got into bad company but there’s still a way out. You can take five grand and forget you ever saw all this.”

  “Or what?”

  “Or you’ll be taken on board a Portuguese schooner for a month’s cruise, until we can straighten this out. It frequently happens on these schooners that a man is washed overboard during a storm. I’d hate to see that happen—but it does occur.”